


& i have asked to be

by shutupquilby (scintilla_says)



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Gen, I SCREAM - Freeform, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5607328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scintilla_says/pseuds/shutupquilby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This time, when he wakes up, his brother is dead."</p><p>In which a war is won, murder runs rampant, and being the very best is a whole lot harder than anyone thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	& i have asked to be

Every dream is the same.

 

He's running through the woods, a steady mantra of _awayawayaway_ pounding through his head as his feet slip through mud. He's naked and lost, and distinctly wounded in his left shoulder; blood streams out behind him like ribbons of macabre moonlight.

 

Something is following him, but he can't make out what it is. He never stops long enough. Its breathing is all he can hear, each exhale rattling the very earth under his feet. He catches himself on a tree root run astray and is upended. He falls and he never stops. There's nothing but a distant howl as he plummets, the inhuman cry echoing through him as he falls and falls and —

 

This time, when he wakes up, his brother is dead.

 

+

_“But I still wake up, I still see your ghost_

_Oh, Lord, I’m not sure what I stand for, oh —”_

 

He jerks awake at once, whole body spasming hard against the car side. “Fuck,” he hisses, bringing a hand up to cup his head. “Mother _fuck_.”

 

“You okay?” Alice asks, sparing him a glance before turning the car onto the freeway. It’s getting hot; she snaps her sunglasses from the visor and takes a deep breath, easing back into the seat as Derek turns the radio off.

 

He doesn’t reply, not that she was expecting him to. He hasn’t said anything of value since they left home: they’re now five hours closer to Floaroma Town, and the possibility of any actual conversation is looking bleaker by the minute. She reaches across the seat without looking, slipping her hand into his. “It’s going to be okay,” she says awkwardly. Contrary to popular belief she’s never been very good at comforting people — not a hereditary skill, it turns out. Fortunately, Derek likes to be comforted about as much as he likes going head-to-head with a Toxicroak, so it works out for the both of them. She gives his hand a squeeze. “At this point we don’t even know if the note’s real.”

 

“It’s Flynn’s handwriting.” He draws his knees up and pulls the note out from his pocket, almost crumpled beyond hope of redemption. It’s been three long years, but he’d recognise the script anywhere, with its fucking ridiculous pear-shaped tittles. _Hugo is dead_. Once Alice had coaxed him out of the bathroom he’d called his mother’s house, the number still seared into some secret compartment of his brain. There had been no answer, and that was as telling as anything. Gladys was never far from the phone.

 

Alice purses her lips. “It would have been all over the news, Derek. Even if they hadn’t called you, if Hugo had — well, if anything had happened to him, everyone would know about it by now.”

 

Derek scowls, grinding his forehead against the window until he sees stars, a network of pops and fizz. Charizard is tucked into his jeans pocket, Pokéball muddled amongst the lint and random shit that he’s never cleaned out, and he reaches for it instinctively, curling his fingers around the gilded sphere until he feels calm again.

 

By the time they pull into Floaroma, the sky has turned to ink and coal, the stars so bright overhead that it makes Derek’s eyes ache. He’d forgotten how glorious the sky could be at night out here. Unfettered. He shakes the thought off, teeth chewing unforgivingly at his lip, a habit as old as he is, even as the car rolls to a stop outside his mother’s clapboard home.

 

Three years have done little to change the two-floor shack. Its rooftop’s still horrifically charred from the hundredth Derek had been way too confident in his handling of Charizard. The house as dark as the night around it. He feels stupid for a moment, foolish, hurt and guilty, a sting of emotions he can’t even hope to parse through. It’s an all-too-familiar feeling, really.

 

“Are you ready for this?” Alice asks as she switches the ignition off. In the distance, a flock of Spearows take flight and Derek sets his shoulders, giving her a grim smile.

 

“Define ready,” he mutters, but he’s already leaving the car, his heavy boots crunching the gravel beneath. Alice follows suit, shrugging a cardigan on as she takes in the house before them. It’s not in her nature to be nervous, and yet she finds herself inhaling unsteadily as she follows her boyfriend through the creaky, wrought iron gate. She’d come across Derek in his first week in Viridian City, already a month from what he referred to as his ‘spectacular departure’. She’s never met his mother, or his brothers — seen them on the television, of course, but not in person.

 

It’s Alice who knocks; one look at her boyfriend confirms he’s a lost cause. He watches through half-mast eyes, the line of his back intractable. Even as the doorbell sounds, she’s pretty sure he’s swearing under his breath. They’re both prepared for an excruciating wait, but the door is opened almost instantly by a bright-eyed, freckled boy. His hair is pale gold, and Alice recognizes him instantly from a thousand photoshoots and televised battles: Hugo.

 

“Fuck,” Derek exhales.

 

Hugo stares at them both, cobalt eyes flicking rapidly between them before slamming the door in their faces.

 

“Well,” Alice says after a beat, “at least we know he’s alive.”

 

+

 

“Oh, _Arceus_.” Gladys breaks into tears the moment she sees her eldest son’s face, and Alice’s heart aches for her in a way that is both genuine and discomfiting. She watches Gladys envelop him in a hug, her entire head dropping onto his narrow shoulder as she cries openly. In the background, Hugo lingers in the doorway, his face an anxious, purpled mess. He’d apologized profusely after letting them in, swearing he’d just been shocked, which was pretty fair as far as Alice was concerned.

 

“I’ve been so worried,” Gladys is saying, her face still lost in the sharp bone of Derek’s shoulders. He settles his hands on her back, resting his cheek against the wiry threads of her hair. He hasn’t — they’ve never been a particularly huggy family, and he’s not known for being tactile himself, but — it’s been a long time. For an embarrassing moment he’s worried that he might start crying as well, but then the front door opens in a gust of wind, and he lifts his eyes to find Flynn frozen in the doorway, face writ with shock. He shares Hugo’s unbelievable blue eyes and smattering of freckles, but cerulean blue has been twisted through his hair, like streaks of sky.

 

“Hey —” Derek begins, even as Hugo snaps to his twin’s side with a fluttering of motions that Alice realizes are meant to be consolatory. Flynn doesn’t give Derek time to finish whatever introduction he was planning; his eyes narrow sharply and he spits, “Go to hell,” before turning on his heel.

 

“Sorry,” Hugo apologizes again. He looks miserable, hands twisting at his sides. He doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes. “He’s… working through some things.”

 

“S’fine,” Derek mutters. Out of the twins, he’d always been closest to Flynn.

 

Gladys’s hands move to cup his cheeks, her own face blotched and wet with tears. She finds his eyes and he has to close them, feeling far too exposed for his liking. “You must be starving,” she murmurs, and he feels her pull him west, knows they’re moving to the kitchen. The blueprint of this house is ingrained into his very soul. Alice sinks into the nearest armchair, overstuffed to the point of actual spine warping, and gives Hugo her most steadying look.

 

“It’s lovely to finally meet you,” she says politely, watching the way his cheeks colour. He looks every inch of sixteen, a completely normal, _live_ human boy. For a moment, she wonders if he himself had sent the note, but his shock at their arrival had been too genuine.

 

“Y-You too,” he stammers, and then ducks his head. “I can’t believe Derek is like, dating _you_.”

 

She laughs and he grins shyly in return. “Me neither,” she agrees lightly, because honestly, sometimes when she looks at Derek all she can come up with is _???_ She pats the seat beside her. “Come, tell me about yourself.”

 

+

 

Meanwhile, Gladys has managed to make enough tea for a small militant army, apparently still coping with her emotions the only way she knows: keeping busy. It’s a habit Derek wishes he’d picked up from her, and he watches her from the kitchen table with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

 

“Mama,” he says for what might be the fifteenth time. “Mama, honestly, I’m not even hungry.”

 

His mother doesn’t answer, just makes a benign sound as she sifts flour and what could be sugar (but could also be talcum powder, knowing her cooking abilities) together into an already overfilling bowl. Derek rolls his eyes, letting his chin drop into his hands as he looks around the kitchen. It’s as atrocious as ever, a chaotic shamble of mismatched crockery and artificial flowers. The colours are appalling: it looks like someone walked around throwing pails of paint over the room at random, and the lighting gives it all a sickening green hue anyway. It’s a desperate, ugly-looking room and Derek loves it fiercely. He eyes the newest additions to its walls, a series of black-and-white photographs and newspaper clippings that celebrate his brothers’ long list of accomplishments. His gaze lingers on the largest piece, the headline screaming _Sinnoh Legends At It Again_ , the twins’ triumphant grins reflected in the towering, gleaming trophy they’re holding. He mouths _legend_ , testing it out on his tongue, before a plate of reheated spaghetti is unceremoniously dumped before him.

 

“Ugh, Mama,” he groans, trying to escape the garlicky smell. “I hate spaghetti.”

 

“You’ve gotten so thin,” Gladys’ hands find his face again; he grimaces at the flour she’s spreading over his cheekbone and gently pushes her hands away. Obliging, she lets him go and lowers herself into the chair opposite him instead, shaking her head as tears fill her dark eyes once more.

 

“Where have you been?” she asks, pulling a vegetable peeler from Arceus-knows-where and going to town on an apple. The tears track down her cheeks again and again, and he finds he can’t bring himself to watch. He looks at her deft fingers instead, the long ribbon of apple skin dancing gracefully through the air.

 

“Around, I guess,” he says finally. Flynn’s note is in his jeans’ pocket, feeling impossibly heavy for such a tiny slip of paper. “In Viridian. Alice has an apartment there.” He doesn’t mention their cottage on the outskirts of Lavender Town, its backyard giving way to miles and miles of untouched forest. The cottage is a secret, their one single hideaway and the only place Derek feels at peace within his own skin.

 

The thing is: the note hadn’t been delivered to Alice’s loft in Viridian City, or to anywhere publicly associated with either of them. Instead, it had been slipped under the cottage’s door, simple as you please, in a way that absolutely did not make sense.

 

He touches the note now, the uneasy feeling returning. On the drive over he’d considered asking his mother about it, figuring she must have been at least a little aware of its existence. Now, though, he knows that assumption to be wrong. Gladys clearly has no idea.

 

“She’s lovely, from what I’ve read,” she says, pausing to pop a piece of apple into her mouth. It’s true that Alice looks fantastic on paper: the beloved daughter of the world’s most successful Coordinators, equally adored by the general public, and an impressive Coordinator within her own right. How she ended up with Derek is a mystery the papers love to puzzle out.

 

“She really is,” he agrees, because Alice is the nicest person he’s ever met, and not just because she puts up with his bullshit. His fingers dig into his jeans, his thighs as he hears a quiet sob – _don’t look up_ , he thinks, but of course he does anyway. His mother looks heartbroken, tears still spilling from her eyes. She’s stopped chewing, stopped peeling, is simply staring at him across the table like he’s the biggest tragedy she’s ever seen. She’s not far wrong on that front.

 

“Mama,” he sighs, reaching across the table to grasp her hand. She watches it happen, her liquid eyes tracking the movement as she finally swallows.

 

“Why did you leave?” she asks, her voice but a whisper. His heart clenches something furious, guilt and shame battling supreme in his throat. He can’t answer. After a moment, she inhales deeply and grips his chin, angling his face so he has little choice but to look into her eyes.

 

“Will you stay?” she asks softly. He can feel the heat prickling his eyes, the tears threatening to spill free, and he blinks them back furiously. There’s a lump in his throat and an ache in his heart, and he squeezes her hand with as much energy as he can muster. He can’t speak, and she lets him go with a sad little laugh.

 

“Eat your spaghetti.”

 

+

 

Later, much later, when Gladys has gone to bed after making both Derek and Alice promise they’ll still be there in the morning, Derek sits on the edge of his childhood bed. Alice is already curled up under the homemade quilt, her long silken hair splayed over the pillow like a chestnut halo. Her hand settles on the crook of his elbow and he gives her a tired smile, bending to press a kiss to her forehead.

 

“Your family is wonderful,” she whispers. She means it – Gladys had been amazing throughout dinner, cracking jokes about Derek’s many adolescent mishaps, his uncanny ability to screw up family holidays, his jeans going unwashed for weeks at a time. It was clear that she had missed her eldest son in a way that sat heavy and painful, and her joy at his return was a sight to behold. Hugo had been an utter delight as well, sending Derek a multitude of blinding grins throughout the night, his heart-shaped face flushed with affection. Alice, whose parents preferred to show affection through cheques, had never seen such an open display of love in her life.

 

Flynn hadn’t come to dinner, though, and she knew that his glaring absence had cut Derek far deeper than he’d ever admit to.

 

Derek sighs, exhausted. He runs a hand through her hair, watching the fan circle overhead. He’s grateful for the dark, the room’s quiet. He feels so fucking overwhelmed. “Yeah, they’re swell. Al, we can’t stay. You know I can’t stay.”

 

Alice props her head up, frowning. “Actually, I don’t. You won’t tell me why, remember?” She doesn’t mean for it to sound as bitter as it does. Previously, his reasons for leaving home haven’t really mattered to her – it was never going to have any measurable impact on their lives, and he’d clearly not wanted to discuss it. She’d assumed there was bad blood of some kind, or that his departure had been some act of rebellion. But it’s clear to her that this family doesn’t understand the concept of bad blood. The idea that Derek didn’t long for them was unfathomable. How could he not?

 

“Alice,” he says. It sounds like a plea. “I just. We can’t.”

 

“Why not? Did you do something? Because they obviously forgive you, and they obviously _miss_ you. Do you not miss them?”

 

Derek presses his knuckles into his eyes, his teeth snarling down. Of course he fucking misses them – he thinks about them every single day, wonders at their health, their happiness. Every time he sees one of his brothers in the news his heart skips a beat. It’s been the most wretched three years of his life, and he can’t – he can’t imagine leaving again, not after tonight. It’s the cruelest thing he could do, but that choice was taken from him years ago.

 

“I’ll be back,” he mumbles, leaving the room before Alice can reply.

 

Derek had caught his first Pokémon on the eve of his twelfth birthday. He had bought the Pokéball with his pocket money, after ten months of saving and a stream of chores, and held it high above his head, Magikarp enclosed, crowing with triumph. Flynn had been four at the time, watching from a safe distance away, his face lit up with glee. He had said something – Derek can’t even remember what – but the end result had been Derek pressing the Pokéball into his brother’s hands, a gift that had rendered the younger Fray speechless.

 

He hesitates outside of Flynn’s room now, rapping his knuckles lightly against the partially closed door. He can hear music playing from inside; something awful composed entirely of violins and angst, and takes a deep breath before pushing through. Flynn’s junk is spread out over the room floor, dirty shoes and lame posters and all of the books he's accumulated. Derek finds that he’s missed the debris of his brother’s day-to-day existence terribly.

 

Flynn isn’t there, but the door to the ensuite bathroom is closed. Derek wanders around the room while he waits, inexplicably fond at its clutter. There’s a locked chest on the dresser mantle, decorated with intricate carvings of dragons and mountains. Derek presses his hand to the top of the box right as the ensuite door swings open. Flynn’s hair is a sopping mess on his head, the planes of his skin red raw from heat. He stops, stymied by his brother’s unexpected presence and his mouth depressing into something nasty. It looks so out of place on his brother that Derek feels almost nauseated: Flynn was always the kind one, the softest of all three.

 

“Get out of my room,” he says without preamble. The only betrayal of his uncertainty is the shake of his hands as he tightens the towel around his narrow waist.

 

“I just wanted to know what the fuck you were thinking sending me that note.”

 

The surprise on Flynn’s face morphs quickly into indignation, an expression that Derek is much more familiar with. Back then, Flynn had always been indignant about something – the treatment of Pokémon, littering, the existence of red grapes, whatever. Now, he looks positively offended, the tips of his ears reddening.

 

“I’ve never sent you anything,” he says, sounding upset by the idea. “Why would I?”

 

Ignoring that sting, Derek reaches into his back pocket and retrieves the note, crumpled from being read over and over. “Explain this, then.”

 

He watches Flynn study the note. He looks shocked, and terrified, and clearly very innocent. “What is this?” he demands, voice quivering. He looks at Derek like one might watch a snake to see if it strikes.

‘

Derek grits his teeth. He was so sure – he’d been certain the note had come from Flynn. “You tell me,” he says coolly, and the hurt that flashes across Flynn’s face is so intense that he hastily backtracks.

“I got it yesterday. It was put under my door, that’s why I came here.” He worries at his lip with his teeth. “Look, Pet –”

 

Flynn’s face shuts down at the nickname. “Get out,” he says. “I don’t know where you get off – I’m not getting involved with your sick games. You can’t _treat_ people like this Derek. We have a life now, okay, without you, and – ”

 

“Hey, hey,” Derek tries, but Flynn shoves the note at him with such force that Derek stumbles backwards. The younger Fray looks awful, his pale face screwed up with the effort of trying not to cry.

 

His voice breaks when he speaks, hands trembling and fisting in turns. “Actually, you know what? I did write to you. When you left us. I wrote to you every day.” He twists only slightly, to snatch a book from the nearest shelf. He shoves this at Derek too. “I called you every day, _every day, Derek_. I thought – I thought even if you didn’t speak to mum or, or Hugo, maybe you would tell me. Maybe you would just –”

 

Derek reaches out to him instinctively, but his hand is shoved aside, and Flynn looks across at him with equal parts anguish and anger. “Get out,” he says again, and this time Derek does.

 

“Fuck,” he hisses as the door is slammed behind him. His eyes are burning. His chest feels severely restricted. _Panic attack_ , he thinks suddenly, but it never quite happens. He stands there for the longest time, just trying to remember how to breathe, his heart thump-thump-thumping in his throat. Flynn’s journal is still clutched in his hands.

 

“I wish you’d never come back,” Hugo says from the other end of the corridor. Derek jerks at the unexpected voice, his head snapping up to stare at his brother in surprise. But before he can make his mouth move, Hugo has slipped away into his own room, the door closing gently but firmly behind him.

 

+

 

Unsurprisingly, the morning is a chaotic affair. Alice is woken at the crack of dawn, possibly by the creeping sunlight but also possibly by the horrendous wailing coming from the living room. Somehow, Derek sleeps through it all, and she grumbles obscenities at him as she slips past.

 

“Sorry!” Hugo shouts to her above the racket, trying to coax a particularly sulky-looking Whismur into the living room. “He’s a bit upset today!”

 

Alice grimaces from the top step, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she tries to stifle a yawn. Flynn barrels around her, struggling to fix the mess of navy fabric around his neck. Or maybe he’s trying to strangle himself – Alice honestly can’t tell. There’s meat cooking somewhere, and after a moment something citrusy joins in. She makes her way to the kitchen, wincing as the Whismur continues to sob, finding Gladys bent over the stove. Her great mass of auburn hair is bundled back, tied off with what might be a shoelace. She beams at Alice as she enters, handing her a steaming teapot. “G’morning, love. Is Derek awake yet?”

 

“Um.” Alice sniffs at the teapot cautiously, before giving up and pouring herself a cup. “No, sorry, he’s still sleeping. Would you like me to wake him?” she asks the last part with a degree of hesitance: it’s obvious something is going on. The house is humming with a slapdash energy, and the boys are dressed in their school uniforms on a Sunday morning. She takes a wary sip of tea as Gladys shoots her a smile that could only be categorized as sly.

 

“Typical,” she says breezily, transferring bacon to at least seven different plates. “That boy could sleep through an earthquake. Has, in point of fact. Now, I have a conundrum.” She hands Alice a plate of breakfast food, her expression taking on a faux-innocence that Alice has seen at least a hundred times on her eldest son. She taps her chin as Alice surveys the platter of meat before her, right as the Whismur comes to a screeching halt. “As you may or may not know, the twins are graduating today.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t know. Congratulations.” She pokes at the sausage with her fork, frowning at the way it slithers free. Something smells an awful lot like patchouli.

 

“There’s a ceremony, you see.” Gladys continues, and Alice nods along mindlessly, murmuring about the ceremonial battle because she knows how high school graduations work. And then she gets a clue, and her head snaps up.

 

“Oh,” she says simply.

 

“Oh,” Gladys agrees. There’s a mischievous glint to her dark eyes, and Alice can feel her own smile start to take shape. And then she remembers her boyfriend’s shuddering inhales, his own dark eyes shining with grief, the unnamable weight on his shoulders. She puts her fork down, sobered. “He’s not going to take that well.”

 

“Ah, but don’t I know it. But what else can I do? This is the only last chance we’re ever going to get.”

 

Alice takes another sip of tea, grimacing at its repugnant smell. And taste. “I’ll let him know,” she says kindly, because Gladys is probably right. If they can just convince Derek to come to the ceremony… well, who knows where that might lead? Besides, she understands how much his presence would mean to the twins. She rises, leaving the awful tea and the questionable food, stepping around Hugo as he sorts Pokéballs in the living room. Flynn is nowhere to be seen, but Alice spies the tie hanging from the ceiling fan.

 

Predictably, Derek is still sleeping, the sheets twisted around him. She lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching the angry twist of his mouth, struck by the thought that he looks at war even in his sleep. There’s a book tucked under his pillow, one corner jutting out, and she sits on the edge of the bed as she carefully thumbs through it. Each page is addressed to Derek, the writing matching the strange note. Every page is a letter, varying in length and substance. Some are one line. Some are questions.

_Why did you leave_

_When are you coming back_

_Did I do something wrong_

_Do you hate us_

 

The last one breaks her heart. She flips forward to the final page, torn at the edges, the writing messier than ever, as if the hand holding the pen had been shaking.

_I never want to see you again_

 

She closes the book with a sigh, slipping it back under the pillow, and rouses Derek by the shoulder. He starts, his whole body shooting up with wide-eyed panic. When he realizes he is in fact not under attack, he inhales deeply and fixes his girlfriend with a wounded look.

 

“Sorry,” she apologises. She pauses, considering how to best word everything, before giving up: there’s never going to be any kind way to do it, and he’s never going to come along willingly. “The twins are graduating today. Gladys invited us along, and I said yes.”

 

Derek stiffens, eyes slit. He opens his mouth but Alice cuts in hurriedly, saying, “It’s one day, Derek. One morning. Don’t you think you owe them a couple of hours, at the very least? It would mean so much to them.”

 

It’s a low blow and she’s fully aware of it, holding her breath as she watches the hurt take him apart. He’s glaring at her now, jaw clenched tightly, every inch of him gone on the defense. She reaches out to take his hand but he’s completely intractable, and she gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, babe. But please believe this is in your best interest. We’re leaving soon, I think, so you should get dressed.”

 

She doesn’t look back at him as she leaves, if only because she can’t bear to see him like this. But she has to believe that this is the right choice: that they’re doing the right thing. She ducks into the bathroom to smooth herself out, applying a slick of plum lipstick and wrangling her hair into something presentable. High school graduation ceremonies aren’t usually televised, but she has a feeling this one will be different. It’s not every day that two of the best Trainers in the world go head to head.

 

Hugo and Flynn had burst into the public eye at 11, their sheer skill catching the attention of the Pokémon Leagues Council. At the time, the legal age to apply for a Training license had been 18; the twins had been allowed to take the test at 14. Hugo had passed it within half an hour, Flynn in 19 minutes, and together they became the youngest registered Trainers since the age limit came into effect. Needless to say, every of their moves since then has been well-documented by the paparazzi, and Alice knows exactly what her mother will say if Alice shows up on the news looking anything but perfect.

 

By the time she’s finished, the twins are in the car and Gladys is waiting by the front door, stunning in a lavender pantsuit. She gives Alice a warm smile, and then her eyes dart to the staircase landing, her mouth falling open into a perfect ‘o’. Alice turns to find Derek standing there, dressed in yesterday’s ripped jeans and muscle shirt, his expression venomous. With his obnoxious fiery red mohawk and combat boots, he looks like a villain in a B-movie. He stomps down the stairs, ignoring both of them as he heads outside to the car.

 

“Well, this can’t possibly end badly,” Alice says dryly, following him out. Derek throws himself into the front passenger seat, and Alice climbs gingerly into the back, giving both Flynn and Hugo a cautious smile. The rage emanating from Derek is visceral; Hugo looks utterly miserable about this unexpected twist, and Flynn shoves his headphones on with such ferocity that Alice frowns. She watches him dial through his mp3 player, picking something that is somehow audible even through the expensive-looking headphones, sounding like a hundred strangled cats. Alice releases a slow, steady breath as Gladys slides into the driver’s seat, starting the ignition without preamble.

 

The drive is excruciatingly tense; it’s the most anxious car ride Alice has ever sat through, and that’s including the time she had to drive her parents back to their house after introducing them to Derek for the first time. There had been a lot of shouting.

 

Hugo’s hands stay folded in his lap, his eyes straight ahead, although every now and then he offers Alice a shaky shadow of a smile. Gladys says nothing, driving carefully, precisely; never looking at her son in the passenger seat, as if she knows that will be the final nail in the coffin. Derek is chewing on his thumb aggressively, the nail coming apart under his teeth: it’s an old habit, one Alice hasn’t seen in a while, and she reaches around the headrest to lay a hand on his shoulder. He spares her a filthy look through the mirror, but she doesn’t take her hand away.

 

Flynn doesn’t take his headphones off until the car pulls into the school parking lot, waiting until Gladys nestles the banged-up station wagon amongst the hundreds of other cars. Alice is the first out, adjusting her shift dress, the silk already battered by the strong breeze. Flynn is off like a shot, backpack in tow and headphones hanging loosely around his neck. He doesn’t say anything on his way, just hunches his shoulders in on himself as he heads for the school entrance. Hugo, on the other hand, hovers anxiously by the car, waiting until Derek steps out before enveloping his older brother in a tight hug. Derek looks stunned, his body going rigid – by the time he moves to return the embrace Hugo has stepped back, his young face somber.

 

“I’m sorry for what I said last night,” he says earnestly, and Alice watches the way Derek’s eyelashes flutter uncertainly, before he nods, jerky.

 

“S’aight,” he mutters, colour climbing his neck like a riot. Hugo doesn’t look any happier, but he nods resolutely, as if his mind has been made, and hoists his backpack on. He looks older somehow, his face wearied by solemnity.

 

“Love you,” he tells Gladys, giving her a fierce hug that she returns with equal gusto. She strokes a hand through his hair, kissing his forehead tenderly.

 

“Best of luck, dear,” she says, and that’s it: he gives them a little wave and follows after his brother, his uniform iridescent against the asphalt. They watch him go, Derek’s hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, his mouth curled unhappily.

 

“Thank you for coming,” Gladys says quietly, giving his forearm a quick squeeze before gathering up her handbag. “I’ll meet you in there, shall I?”

 

+

 

“This is a fucking – terrible idea,” Derek mutters around his thumb; blood wells under his teeth and he spits it clean out, anger and anxiety running riot.

 

Alice offers him a smile, or at least the barest hint of one. She obviously thinks this is a superb idea, the first step in a long, probably endless healing process. She says as much and Derek delivers a scowl in return, before turning his attention back to the school. _Sinnoh Pokémon Academy_ is a towering fortress of glass and timber, throwing splatters of light around its ample grounds, the most esteemed Pokémon school in the region. He hasn’t actually stepped foot in the building since he was expelled eight years ago, but he has a feeling he’ll have no trouble finding his way around.

 

“It’s going to be okay,” Alice says, probably trying to be reassuring, her fingers circling around his wrist as they line up at the entrance. “It’ll only be a few hours, and then we can go home. And, I don’t know. Don’t you want to fix things?”

 

He doesn’t answer. It’s a fucking stupid question: of course he wants to fix things. He wants to remove the devastating sorrow from the corners of Hugo’s mouth, Flynn’s constant, furious anger. His mother’s unending heartache. But he’s not in a position to do any of that, not right now. Maybe not ever. He grinds his teeth impatiently as he hands over his Trainer’s license and his sole Pokéball, watching them both be scanned with little fanfare.

 

“Thanks,” the attendant says, handing them back to him. “Have a great morning.”

 

He grunts a reply, rolling his eyes when the attendant’s eyes widen at Alice’s Coordinator license, her freckled face flushing. She fumbles with the license badly, her hands gone shaky, but Alice is nothing if gracious, giving her an encouraging beam. It’s a public smile, one of the many she throws on when she’s met by one of her adoring fans, thoughtless and able to be summoned immediately. Derek hates that smile.

 

“Th-thank you, Miss Hargrove,” the attendant titters, and by the time they make it to the massive entrance gates themselves, half the crowd is on their toes trying to catch a glimpse of them (of Alice, specifically, because very few people are interested in Derek, which is exactly how he likes it). The gates are beautiful; they look as if they’ve been crafted from real gold (they might be, for all Derek knows), truly resplendent, with a large golden Ho-Oh splayed across the top. The moment they’re through the gates, the principal, Horace, dressed in splendid red robes, meets them. He looks something like a Ho-Oh himself, his dark eyes sweeping over them both before he presses a kiss to the back of Alice’s hand.

 

“Ah, Miss Hargrove, an absolute pleasure to host you for this most auspicious occasion,” he rumbles, looking positively delighted to see her, as if they’re old friends. Alice returns the sentiment, deliberately looping her arm through Derek’s as she speaks. This forces Horace to actively acknowledge Derek, something that secretly delights the ever-loving-fuck out of the redhead, because Horace cannot _stand_ him. He’d been the one to eventually expel him, after Derek had accidentally set the gymnasium alight for the fourth time.

 

Well… it was mostly an accident.

 

“Mr Fray, of course. I have to say, it was truly wonderful watching you participate in the League last year. Your handling of Blaziken was quite extraordinary, considering the circumstances.” Horace moves to shake his hand, but Derek adamantly does not remove them from his pockets, giving the oldr man a tight smile instead.

 

“Sure,” he drawls, and Alice coughs neatly, drawing the conversation back to polite small talk. Derek zones out completely, glancing furtively around the crowded garden square, scanning the hundreds of unfamiliar faces. There’s still a lingering tightness in his belly that he can’t quite dispel, his body wound tight. He can’t fucking wait to get out of here.

 

And then he spots a bald head, crowned with a wreath of golden leaves; broad, confident shoulders, and his breath catches clean in his throat.

 

“Al,” he croaks, meaning to move them away, to exit the premises immediately, but the word gets stuck in his throat, warped by the undulated panic building in the very center of him. The head turns, brown eyes falling on him and then Derek’s mind becomes nothing but white noise, a sheet of fog blanketing him, and all he can do is watch Allen make his way over to them.

 

“Ah, Mr Green,” Horace says, as Derek’s heart threatens to pound right out of his chest.

 

Allen looks as regal as ever, dressed from head to toe in black and gold, the Saffron City Gym crest emblazoned over his heart. He cuts a striking figure, possessing a natural conviction that Derek has always envied. Right now, it makes Derek’s stomach turn and clench: he looks like nothing ever happened.

 

“Horace. Miss Hargrove.” Allen’s greeting is cool; he spares Derek only the briefest of looks. His mouth is tight, though, a vertical line etched between his thick eyebrows.

 

Alice laughs her public laugh, a gentle twinkle that has put many a heated conversation to end. She takes his arm, giving it a pat, like they’re _friends_ , like Allen is perfectly normal, like he possesses anything other than complete abhorrence for other human beings. “Please,” she says kindly, “Alice is fine. I think we’ve been forced into enough horrendous board meetings together to have earned that.”

 

Derek watches, horrified, jerking unconsciously under Alice’s other hand. He knows – he understands that they both serve on the Leagues Council; they would have come into contact with each other before, would have talked, shared a conversation. And yet somehow he feels shocked, shaken to his very core at the idea.

 

“We should go,” he croaks, forcing the words out around the awful lump in his throat, pulling Alice away before she can form a protest. He doesn’t look back at Allen: he cannot bring himself to. There’s a buzz under his skin, trying to run riot, and he crams it back as best he can, taking quick, wretched breaths. They make it to the other end of the square before he can’t breathe anymore, feeling like his chest might burst from the pressure alone.

 

“Derek?” Alice cups his face, her hands startlingly cold on his skin. “Hey, are you okay? Just breathe, baby.”

 

He can’t, though, he fucking _can’t_ , sheer white panic closing in. Alice seems to realize this, pulling him over to the edge of the square, under the maple tree’s cool shade and away from the crowd, digging into her glittering handbag for Derek’s inhaler. She gives it to him, gripping the back of his neck to administer four, quick puffs before she cups his face again, smoothing her fingertips over his sharp cheekbones. Her own breaths slow noticeably, a baseline to link her boyfriend’s fractured respiration. Her exhales fan audibly against him, startlingly close.

 

He doesn’t know how much time passes. He very nearly claws his own forearms arms to death, ripping up skin like turf, spearing cells, but slowly, very slowly, the strain of his breaths scrape low in his throat, wretched and ugly but the wet, bloody rattle has eased and his chest is made looser for it. Derek matches Alice breath for breath, stride for stride: his entire world tunnels down to the sound of Alice existing beside him.

 

When he can talk – when he can _breathe_ – he presses his forehead to hers, a desperate, aborted gesture. She continues to rub at his cheeks, pressing in to kiss at his temple, damp with sweat.

 

“What happened?” she asks, and he shakes his head, feeling inexplicably weakened. He grips her wrists, just trying to steady himself, right when the bell sounds. It takes him a long moment to work out what it means, the message it’s communicating.

 

“I thought,” Alice hesitates, “I know you had a falling out, but I thought you – I thought that had healed.”

 

Derek doesn’t reply; he can’t even begin to explain how it’s been three years and the wound still bleeds freely. It will always bleed freely. He feels defeated, exhausted. He wishes they hadn’t come, but now the regret is a heavy weight, sinking to the very core of him, rather than the bone-deep rage it had been earlier.

 

“We should go.” Alice regards him for a moment longer as the bell’s ringing ebbs. The crowd has dispersed, everyone heading to their seats in the school’s expansive stadium – Derek can’t see Allen anywhere.

 

He doesn’t say anything. His mouth won’t work properly. Alice takes his hand and does what she does best: she leads on.

 

+

 

By the time they find their seats everyone else is seated, instrumental music wafting through the speakers. Gladys is waiting for them, a stack of pamphlets and thick envelopes clutched in her hands.

 

“Look!” she says, thrilled. More sit on her lap, and some stick out of her handbag. Derek knows what they are as soon as he sees them: offers of scholarships from some of the world’s most prestigious universities, Gyms and higher training academies. He’s proud of his brothers, he really is, but he’s so utterly exhausted by the day’s events that all he can muster is a wan smile. Gladys doesn’t seem to mind. She seems so glad just for his presence that he feels sick with it, his stomach lurching violently at the hot spike of guilt.

 

He thinks that it’ll be a miracle if he makes it through the morning in one piece.

 

The music continues to build, strings and a heavy drumbeat climbing to a deafening crescendo; Horace’s work, probably. The man has always been notoriously fond of melodrama.

 

A great hush falls over the stadium as soon as the music is cut off, six-hundred people craning in their seats or turning to the gargantuan screen overhead, watching as Horace takes the stage. He looks completely at home, waving at the crowd that Derek knows is filled with corporate sponsors as much as it is with parents. It hits him suddenly that the stadium field is marked up for battle, a clean, thick white line drawn clean across the center, and he frowns. “I thought they did the graduation ceremony before the battle.”

 

Alice shrugs, clapping politely as Horace grips the microphone, gleaming in the sunlight and splashing pools of golden light everywhere. “I suppose it’s more convenient for the sponsors. I expect they’re quite keen to see the boys in action.”

 

It’s a fair point: Derek doesn’t doubt that there are countless sponsors and talent scouts wanting to throw their weight and money behind Hugo or Flynn. He sinks down in his chair, inhaling bitterly.

 

“Good morning to our wonderful families, to our ever-loyal committee and, of course, to our esteemed guests! Welcome to our very special annual celebratory Graduation Battle!”

 

The stands go wild, screams and havoc and Derek grimaces. Gladys is already beside herself, her face split ear-to-ear with a huge grin, clapping gleefully.

“We have a fantastic match for you today, the best ever, I believe! All year the students have battled for dominance, to fight before you today, and we are ever so proud of our competitors, the Academy's very own legends, the child prodigies themselves, Hugo and Flynn Fray!”

 

“Legends?!” Gladys crows to Alice over the crowd's appeased roar. “No pressure!”

 

It’s at this that the twins appear at opposite ends of the field, dressed in battle costumes, coming through as the drumroll becomes deafening. To the uninitiated, the naïve (the stupid, Derek thinks nastily) battle costumes are just for show. Like a fancy dress party, without the party. But he’s been in this game for a long time, and he knows exactly what they represent. A uniform. A sense of belonging. Community. An art form, each one as individual to its wearer as fingerprints.

 

A weapon. Above all, a weapon.

 

It doesn't at all surprise him that Flynn’s outfit is in hues of blues, tidy and streamlined, hugging the boy's skeletal frame like it's been painted on. Derek instantly recognises the material as Gyarados skin, famously impenetrable. He’s had the sense to protect his throwing arm, sheathed from elbow to knuckle in some dark metal, embellished with blunted spikes – enough to cause damage if needed. His legs have received the same treatment, up to the knee in identically fashioned boots. The rest, however, is all for aesthetic, with the top reigning supreme, intricately cut at the sides to expose sharp, pale hipbones and the tiniest sliver of hard muscle. The official Pokéball symbol is inscribed on the belt, cut directly into the hard buckle.

 

Hugo has taken a completely different route altogether. While Flynn’s costume is highly decorative, his is all business, in dark black that catches blue in the sunlight. The collar is high and stiff, made from thick, flameproof material. There’s a heavy, silvery chest-plate covering his narrow torso, breaking off into gleaming gauntlets. His boots are heavy, with thick spurs that could easily slice skin. His hands are also covered, sheathed in chainmail gloves. His belt is thick, shimmering, slung over his chest and there's more than standard Pokéballs; he's packing quite a punch, and while guns are forbidden in battle, the blades sure as hell aren't. His Pokéball symbol is on his collar, a golden pin that Derek suspects was a gift from Gladys.

 

Hugo’s grin is blinding; he looks like he couldn’t be happier, like the battlefield is exactly where he’s meant to be. Flynn looks wary, tense; Derek knows he’s always hated attention.

 

The crowd is already pumped, yelling and shouting as they throw streamers, hold up signs. Derek has seen his brothers battle a hundred times on the TV, but they’ve never fought each other. Not before today, and he takes a deep breath as Horace reminds everyone of the dutiful Jennies on hand, and the Joys waiting in the wings should anything go wrong, as it often does. There’s a referee, donned in navy blue with flowing black hair, effeminate but decidedly male. There are several Pokéballs strapped to his waist as well, a whistle around his neck, and a stun gun strapped to his thigh, just in case. He makes the twins shake hands with a grim smile.

 

Gladys’s hand grabs at Derek’s and he jerks in surprise, but doesn’t have time to react further: a gong sounds, and the match has begun.

 

+

 

They’d talked about this day, on a night spent curled up under the sprawling oak tree in their backyard, eyes half-lidded in the sweet moonlight. They both knew that one day they would have to face each other; it was inevitable, really, though it had never seemed like much of an issue to either of them.

 

“I’m going to kick your ass,” Hugo had said through a sleepy, affectionate smile, hands tucked up under his face. Flynn had snorted, rolling onto his back to stare up at the night sky, overflowing with stars and satellites and the moon itself.

 

“We’ll see,” he allowed, the corners of his mouth creeping up into his own smile.

 

Now, he can’t bring himself to smile at all. He swallows, thick and lumpy, with his own blood pounding in his ears. He’s never taken to the battlefield as naturally as Hugo; he finds it completely unnerving every single time. He tries not to think of Horace’s words, because phrases like _legend_ and _prodigy_ make his head spin. He tries not to think about the audience and its talent scouts watching with eagle eyes. He tries not to think of his mother, who has attended every single one of their matches, or Allen, who has helped them both to train and is surely watching critically from the stands.

 

He definitely doesn’t think about Derek.

_Arceus_ , he thinks, inhaling until his sides burn before letting it all out in one rush. His hands find his belt on instinct, worrying over the smooth curves of the attached Pokéballs, warm to the touch: six little miracles, hanging in a row. One step, two step, three step, _throw_.

 

He feels a bit better.

 

“Hey, don’t worry!” Hugo calls across the field, radiant in the morning light. “You’re going to be great, Flynn! I have so much faith in you!” And then he’s moving, throwing a Masterball in a wide, perfect act. The brilliant flash brings Flynn abruptly back to earth.

 

Jolteon.

 

He stares at the electricity dancing through the air between them, stunned. Hugo has always worked with Normal-types, he’s never… he’s never handled an Electric-type in his _life_. Flynn darts a startled look at the crowd, searching for Allen’s dark face.

 

Did he know? Was this planned?

 

“I know, sorry,” Hugo looks almost sheepish. “But c’mon… what else was I meant to do?”

 

Flynn says nothing, just hooks his long fingers around his first Pokéball, getting ready to scram. Hugo’s attack comes in a heated yell, wrapped with a cheeky grin, “Thunder Fang!”

 

Flynn bolts, his own Pokéball arcing through the air at neck-breaking speed and he hits his Gyarados, Nalong, just in time. They rocket into the air as charged teeth slam into the ground where he’d stood two seconds before.

 

“Little close there,” he tells Nalong, his heart already thudding painfully in his chest. Circling thirty feet above the stadium, he starts to wonder how long Hugo has actually been preparing for this. Has he been having secret sessions with Allen, the self-confessed master of Electric-types? How long has he been hiding this away? He hadn’t trained for this battle at all.

 

Always so naïve, he thinks crossly.

 

He’s thrown completely off-kilter when Jolteon is already returned, vanishing into the Masterball after a single move. He frowns down at his brother, at the studious look on his heart-shaped face, as he pulls his second Pokéball free.

 

The ball’s light is blinding; Flynn’s eyes squeeze shut against it, his whole body tensing against the burst of warmth. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, no light he’s ever _seen_. He understands why the moment the light fades enough for him to open his eyes.

 

Hugo has thrown Zapdos.

 

“ _Oh, my Arceus._ ” Flynn's eyes are flayed wide, stricken. Shock thrums in his gut like a sickening heartbeat, blowing through him like a hurricane.

 

Nobody has seen Zapdos in years. Nobody has –

 

“I… an… unexpected turn of events…” Horace’s voice comes slow through the microphone, jolted. Like he doesn't quite know what to _do_ – the crowd hasn't been this shaken up in years. There are flashes of light, the cameras moving in a frenzy as officials spill around the edges of the field to converge.

 

There's absolutely no way Flynn could have expected to have to beat a Legendary Pokémon. Hugo has won. Hugo has won, because Flynn can’t possibly call a winning shot now. Not against a Legendary, not against _Zapdos_. It’s not possible. He’s never trained to fight a Legendary, because _nobody sees them anymore._

 

Flynn's thought process halts completely; Zapdos is a literal thunderstorm with wings, and is frankly terrifying to watch. The air around him is crackling, hissing with power. Flynn’s insides give an excruciating twist as Hugo shouts, “Peck!”

 

“Dive!” The word is out instantly – Nalong tumbles sharply and Flynn grits his teeth _._ He can't beat Zapdos.

 

He doesn't even _know_ Zapdos.

 

“Steel Wing!”

 

The attack hits them like a tornado, razored and _hard_ , sending them plummeting to the ground some thirty feet below. Nalong roars, tremors, thrashing furiously from the sheer force. Flynn hits the ground first, quickly returning her before she can tear the field apart. He's bleeding badly; there’s a deep gash through his left tricep and his body is pounding. How he didn’t break his back is anyone’s guess – he can hear the crowd freaking around them and he becomes distantly aware of the several Joys that have moved forward to the arena perimeter, ready. He rolls over onto his side, testing his limbs to make sure nothing’s broken before pushing forward onto his knees. He inhales and exhales, with Zapdos still circling above him like a twisted vulture, thunder and lightning (very very frightening, he thinks aimlessly).

 

What does he know about Zapdos? _Nothing_ , he answers bitterly because nobody _talks_ about it anymore. He can't separate gossip from fact and this terrifies him because he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't even know its fucking stats. He doesn't even know how it still _exists_. He sure as hell doesn't know how the fuck _Hugo_ _of_ _all people_ has it.

 

 _What else have you been hiding?_ he thinks desperately as his stomach roils. He vomits onto the ground, a mixture of bile and blood, his body shivering.

 

“Flying. Electric,” he whispers to himself, voice reedy. He stays hunched low to the ground, just breathing, and thinks of Allen, who often faced off against him in backyard matches, even after Derek had left town. With his own inclination towards Water-types, Flynn had reveled in the challenge Allen’s Electric Pokémon provided. What did he learn from that… and how can he even apply that to a fucking _Legendary Pokemon that was supposed to be dead_?

 

“Giving up?” Hugo asks. He's standing a few feet away, his mouth drawn tight, but he makes no move to check on his brother. Horace has stopped speaking now, and the stadium has fallen deathly silent around them.

  
+

 

“What the fuck…” Derek stares at Zapdos, aghast. He’s never seen any of the Trio, not alive, not in person. Only in books and on posters, glorious but ultimately _nonexistent_. He looks at Gladys sharply, accusatory. “Did you know he had that?”

 

Gladys shakes her head slowly, unable to tear her eyes from the magnificent bird flapping above the stadium, and Derek believes her, if only because her knowledge of Pokémon is severely limited. She had jumped out of her seat when Flynn had fallen, her face flooding with panic. It had fallen to Alice to coax her into sitting again, and now their hands are clasped together. Gladys’ knuckles are white.

 

There’s a sick feeling growing in Derek’s gut, something awful and liquid black. The battle has taken a dramatic turn, and he feels like they’re standing on the precipice of something terrible. He watches Flynn spit blood – too much of it – and stand, his legs shaky but not quite giving out as he takes another Pokéball from his belt. A section of his light-coloured hair has been turned red.

 

“How far did he fall?” Gladys asks. Her voice is trembling. Alice squeezes her hands in reply, shooting Derek a concerned look.

 

Flynn is coughing too much to verbalise the summoning, but it doesn’t really matter. Kabutops appears on the field in a flash of light, poised.

 

“He has to stop using Water,” Alice says urgently, and Derek feels his mouth twist grimly. He’s never seen Flynn fight without Water-types, just as he’s never seen Hugo fight without Normal-types.

 

Kabutops stands between them with his great sickles raised expectantly – Flynn seems to know what's coming, his shoulders hunching almost apologetically.

 

“Zapdos! Thunderbolt!”

 

The attack lights up the stadium, a furious flash of light that can be seen a mile away, causing the audience to flinch, howl and Derek spits profanities as his hands shield his eyes. Kabutops survives, but only barely – even from this distance Derek can tell it’s almost done for. Flynn has been grounded again, and even from this distance Derek can see how much he’s paled.

 

“Why the fuck didn’t he take in Quick Claw?” he asks angrily, because he fucking _knows_ Flynn has one. He’s the one who gave it to him.

 

“ _Slash_!” Flynn’s voice is wet and trembling, but it doesn’t matter: the attack is heard. It turns out Kabutops doesn't have Quick Claw – he's got King's Rock, and Flynn prays for that ten percent, prays it works on _this_. And then the remarkable happens: Zapdos _flinches_. One fucking flinch, and Flynn has a foot in. “Kabutops! Rock Slide!”

 

It happens so quickly it’s almost unbelievable – Zapdos is pummeled, its fierce body driven to the ground under the sheer weight. Derek jumps out of his seat again, shocked, watching the way Hugo’s mouth curls into a weighted smirk. There’s no way Zapdos is down for the count, not yet, but the move has given Flynn a short reprieve, if nothing else.

 

Flynn can barely stand now, and Derek wants to yell at the Joys to fucking _check_ him, to pause the bloody match for two seconds. They won’t, though, of course they won’t, and instead he watches Hugo cross the short distance to his brother, wrapping him in a hug. Hugo says something into Flynn’s ear, inaudible to everyone but his twin, and Derek sees Flynn’s face crumple in confusion, his mouth parting uncertainly.

 

Before he understands why, Derek is jumping over the row in front of them. The spectators shriek at him, enraged, but he pays them no mind; he jumps row after row, a thick panic firing huge and incomprehensible inside of him.

 

Something is wrong, something is _very fucking wrong_ ; he’s made it to half-way down the seats when Hugo sends out Onix. Derek freezes, staring at the giant rock monster taking up a good half of the stadium. Zapdos is still trapped under boulders, but it’s still _present_ and therefore Hugo has no business sending out a second Pokémon.

 

Derek wants to scream at Flynn to get out of there, _away,_ but he doesn't get the chance.

 

Hugo takes a steadying breath, says quietly, “Explosion,” and everything comes crashing down.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is actually a rewrite of a very old story i've been playing around with for years. i struggle with english so i'm still working on how to get it to flow better, sorry~ 
> 
> also, all battle-related mistakes are mine!! i haven't played for a while >:(


End file.
